


The Precious Door

by Frenziedfandomfollower



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Door Damage, Feels, Flashback, Gen, I Tried, I don't actually know Dari, I've been working on this for months, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock could be assumed, Light Angst, M/M, My First AO3 Post, Not Beta Read, Not Johnlock explicit, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 01, Sherlock Being a Good Friend, google translate, i did research, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 20:53:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13108332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenziedfandomfollower/pseuds/Frenziedfandomfollower
Summary: John and Sherlock are fighting when Sherlock does something that triggers John. Now he has to stop the soldier from doing something he will regret.





	The Precious Door

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first post. I would love feedback, just please be considerate. Also, I have not: been a soldier, been to war, know Dari, had PTSD, held/owned a gun, been Sherlock and/or John. Please let me know if I portrayed any of these instances incorrectly and know that tried my best to be sensitive. Thanks!

 Sherlock bound up the stairs to their flat as John trailed behind.

 

“Sherlock, don’t walk away from me! We have to talk about this.” Sherlock huffed as he tore off his coat and scarf and threw it on his chair.

 

“There is nothing to talk about John. I won’t do it.” He began to walk towards his room with John close behind.

 

“Sherlock, stop being so childish. You can’t hide in your bloody room! I swear to God, Sherlock, if you close that door . . .” at that moment, Sherlock slammed the door to his room.

 

John immediately tensed. His eyes glazed over as his memories became reality. The soldier began to relive the ambush the had gotten him shot. He instinctively grabbed his gun in the small of his back with his right hand and raised it to Sherlock’s door.

 

Sherlock got suspicious when he did not hear John’s eloquent stream of swearing that usually accompanied these arguments. As he began to open the door, a shot rang out. Sherlock dropped to the floor. Breathing heavy from adrenaline, Sherlock looked up to see a bullet-sized hole in the center of the doorway. _Six possibilities_. He glanced towards the window on the opposite side of the room. Based on the lack of glass shards on the windowsill, it had broken from the inside. _Three possibilities_. Sherlock cracked open the door and saw the situation before him. John was breathing hard, his heart beating rapidly. Clear signs of his sympathetic nervous system taking over. John’s eyes were staring at the hole in the door, but Sherlock knew that his mind was far from the flat. _One possibility_. Sherlock knew that if he made any sudden movements, John would kill him without even understanding what he had done. No. Sherlock had to think this through.

“John? Are you okay?” He hesitantly called to the soldier.

 

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” John jumped and pointed the gun directly at Sherlock. “کی اونجاست؟ خودتان نشان می دهد” Sherlock was more than a little surprised at John’s ability to speak Dari. He would have to inquire about the extent of his knowledge later.

 

“John? Can you hear me? I’m going to open my door and move towards you. Is that okay?” Sherlock slowly rose from his crouched position and raised his arms to show he had nothing in his hands. John slowly nodded. The gun was shaking slightly. The doctor wasn’t excited and calm as he usually was when he handled his gun. John was scared. He looked straight at Sherlock, yet he did not recognize him. His mind was thousands of kilometers away, in a sandy desert. The young detective opened the door and walked slowly towards John, his arms still raised.

 

“John? It’s me, Sherlock. Your friend. Do you know where you are right now?” Sherlock attempted to ground John and remind him of where he was. Sometimes even Sherlock was surprised by the facts stored in his mind palace.

 

John’s eyes went to the gun and stared. “I… I… I don’t know,” John whispered.

 

“That’s okay. John. You are with me. At our flat. 221B Baker St. Remember?” Sherlock’s voice was soft and warm. He slowly inched towards John.

 

“What? . . . No, no, can’t be. This can’t be happening.” John squeezed his eyes shut and started to shake his head. He took the gun and rubbed it against his head as he tried to understand the situation.

 

“John, give me the gun. We can talk this all out. Okay?” The detective slowly began to reach for the gun.

 

“No!” John shouted. His eyes popped open as he pointed the gun at Sherlock’s chest, almost touching him. Sherlock raised his hands higher and took a step back. “It can’t be you. It can’t. You shouldn’t be here. You can’t be here!” John was agitated and disoriented. His hand was getting twitchy.

 

“John, John. It’s okay. It’s all okay. John. You are here with me, Sherlock. We are in the kitchen of our flat, John. Remember?” Sherlock kept a level, soothing voice.

 

John looked all around him. He saw pieces of the room. Newspapers pouring over the chair. The laboratory equipment scattered on the island. He saw Sherlock’s face. But mostly, he saw his memories. He saw the desert. He saw the roadside bombs and the limbs scattered about. Why was he considered a doctor when everyone around him died? He closed his eyes again. Trying to keep the voices, the memories, out of his head. All of his doubts, all of his failures.

 

“It’s so real,” John whispered as tears began to pool in the corners of his eyes.

 

“I know, John. I know. It seems real, but it’s not. Can I touch you? Can I show you that I am real? That this is reality?” Sherlock motioned to the room, making sure to keep his hands up as he crept forward.

 

John frowned. He was confused but slowly nodded. He didn’t really know what Sherlock was asking, but he knew that Sherlock was going to help.

 

Sherlock slowly moved to the left side of the gun and put his left hand on John’s hand. He gasped, his eyes snapped open. Sherlock quickly took the gun with his right hand and threw it as far from John as possible. He stepped closer as John began to break down. He rested John’s head on his chest with his right hand as he put his left on the soldier’s lower back to pull John closer. They both crumbled to the floor, Sherlock holding the soldier in his arms.

 

“What have I done, Sherlock? What have I done?” John moaned.

 

Sherlock sighed relief. “Nothing, John. You have done nothing wrong. You are on Baker St. with me, John. You are safe. Right here. Right now.” He rested his chin on the soldier's head and began to rub John’s back.

 

John cried silently until his eyes were finally dry.

 

“I tried Sherlock, I tried so damn hard, but I couldn’t save them,” John whispered. Sherlock could barely hear the words. “I should have died. It should have been me. Oh God, why wasn’t it me?”

 

Sherlock took his right hand to John’s chin and lifted it up. He waited until the doctor looked him in the eyes.

 

“John, listen to me. You’ve saved so many people. You’ve saved me. We all need you, John. Please don’t give up on us. Please, don’t give up on me.”

 

John looked up at Sherlock and then softly closed his eyes. He moved his head deeper into Sherlock’s embrace. Sherlock continued his slow rubbing movements. John fell asleep in this position as Sherlock held him close and whispered, “you’re safe” over and over. When John woke up 15 minutes later he was still anxious and disoriented, but better. Sherlock persuaded him to sit on the couch while he made him a cup of tea. As they both sipped, Sherlock tried to convince John to sleep more.

 

“Sherlock, I’m fine. Honestly, I’m feeling much better now.” He tried to smile as he said this, but it mostly looked like he was in pain.

 

“No, you are not John. You are still shaking. And I know you don’t sleep at night because when you do sleep you have nightmares which wake you up.” John glared at Sherlock for his knowledge of this information. “Well, you do! So, take a kip on the sofa and I will keep watch while you sleep. Make sure nothing bad happens. Ya? I will protect you, John. It’s my turn. Now lay down.” He ended the last remark by getting up and putting a pillow on the end of the sofa. John eyed him suspiciously, but he was exhausted and, he even if he didn’t want to admit it, he was scared to be by himself. So, he set his tea down on the table and laid his head down on the pillow. Sherlock draped a blanket over him and walked towards his chair and picked up a book. Minutes passed in silence.

 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

 

“It’s okay, John.”

 

“No, it’s not okay. I could have killed you! I completely ruined the door. I. . . I. . . I didn’t even know what I was doing.” Tears began to soak into the pillow as John looked towards Sherlock.

 

“Killing me would be terribly ambitious of you,” Sherlock closed the book he was reading and began to turn it over in his long fingers. “And as for the door, it really did have it coming.” He pointed to book at the door. “I’ve been meaning to do it for ages and you’ve saved me the trouble,” He chuckled hoping the doctor would join. The best he got was a small smile. Sherlock turned to face him. “John, you did nothing wrong. You had a flashback. It happens. I will always be here for you. I will always protect you. Remember that.”

 

Sherlock looked over at the man on the sofa. He looked small in that moment, weak and tired. But also, brave and strong, resilient. He had never been prouder of his solder. Sherlock looked towards the stairs. “Now get to sleep before Mrs. Hudson finds out what you did to her precious door.”

 

John smiled as he closed his eyes, not scared for the first time in a long time. The soldier was home from war, if only for the moment.


End file.
